Occasionally a tide of romantic feelings would break in on him, as if they were embodiments of recovered memories of histories that had played out in some parallel dimensional past. These were purely feelings and for all their transient purchase on him, and their necessarily elaborated story-lines, their musical logic, they could not easily be translated into words. It is as if a wound in the world has been opened, a sort of heart wound, continually bleeding. It is his own heart but also the world's heart. It is an objective and immemorial wound, always ready to be re-opened, and somehow he and this other, this anima, were touched by it. Their story, seemingly a happy story, one to go on from, had revealed itself, by its own private happiness, by its seeming to be the very thing to staunch it, as the story of this wound. The feeling of it, the reverberation of the violation in it, stayed with them, and only by being together again, body to body, mouth to mouth, holding tight, could they soothe or solace its recurrent pain, but without healing it - perhaps even cutting deeper into it. And it was only with her that this was possible, only through the dual being they fleetingly made up in the flesh, like the perfect fitting together of two broken parts. Through this generalised grief and certainty of solace he could drop all restraints against her sorrows, his own sorrows and those of the world. There was a more than discursive certainty in the logic of these feelings, and more than deserved appropriateness to the pairing, chosen out of all other possibilities, which they made, and yet the whole thing was massively contingent, a product of accidental circumstances and even more so of accidents of consciousness as wildly fleeting as the patterns of foam on the side of a breaking wave.